Time Enough for Flying
by lionesseyes13
Summary: The story of Luke's childhood on Tatooine from the time Owen and Beru agree to take him in until they meet their ends in ANH. Featuring Luke, Owen, and Beru with appearances by Luke's friend and Obi-Wan Kenobi.
1. Chapter 1

A Son at Last

As the twin suns of Tatooine set, Owen and Beru Lars, finished with their dinner, settled beside each other on their living room couch. As Beru poured them each a glass of iced quintberry tea from the pitcher she had placed on the table before them, Owen flipped on the holoscreen, switching to the holonews station for their daily update on the Clone Wars. Since Tatooine had never been Republic or Separatist soil, the only reason they bothered to monitor the war's progress was because of Anakin Skywalker.

Shmi, whom they had both loved, would have been glued to the holoscreen every evening, hoping to hear that her beloved son was still among the living, and dreading the revelation that he had perished in a wave of fire dodging enemy fire up where even the stars had no more secrets to conceal. He could picture his gentle stepmother wedged between him and Beru, clinging onto both their fingers for comfort as she listened to the news anchor provide information on battlefront after battlefront throughout a galaxy ripped apart by strife and greed. Owen figured that as long as he could feel Shmi's presence so strongly, she wasn't really dead, and, as long as she was alive, Owen would keep himself apprised as to what was happening to her precious Anakin.

"Today certainly has been an eventful one—a day promised to go down in galactic history," announced the anchor, Jenyah Min, whose chirping tone had always seemed a grating contrast to the terrible news it constantly imparted. Flashing her dazzling grin, which was far too bright for the dim Lars living room, Jenyah continued even more perkily, "To the delight of every peace-loving soul in the galaxy, the Clone Wars have ended. All the Separatist leaders, who instigated a rebellion against lawful authority that ended in the slaughtering of millions of innocent civilians, have been executed."

Owen felt numb. He knew that he should have been clapping or screaming with delight that the war was over, and Shmi's son, who was always on the news for doing something so stupid that it was bound to be the death of him, was finally safe. However, the too upbeat tone of the anchor made it impossible for him to take her words seriously.

A second later, he supposed that it was just as well that he hadn't started rejoicing that Anakin Skywalker was really free at least, because Jenyah went on, "Meanwhile, the Jedi, whose clandestine plot against the legitimate leader Palpatine has recently been exposed when they tried and failed to assassinate the respected Supereme Chancellor, have been killed as traitors and their Temple burned. Any Republic civilians who spot what they suspect to be a Jedi on the run are to report such a sighting to their local law enforcement immediately. Failure to do so could result in a sentence of up to two hundred years in prison for aiding and abetting a traitor. Civilians are urged to remember that Jedi are infamous for using mind tricks on the unwary, so all citizens should be on the guard for such deception and manipulation."

"All the Jedi are dead?" Beru whispered, eyes wide with horror, and her cup trembling in her hands.

"They can't all be." Owen shook his head, running a finger along the condensation on the rim of his glass to keep his mind focused. "The citizens of the Republic wouldn't have been told to report any sightings of Jedi if there were none left to see. If all the Jedi really were dead, they wouldn't have to make a news bulletin about capturing them."

"So Anakin might still be alive?" murmured Beru, hope filling her gaze.

"He's survived enough scrapes that should have been the death of him." Gruffly, Owen shrugged. "I don't see why he shouldn't beat the odds and live through this one too. He seems to thrive off being under fire."

"All citizens of the former Galactic Republic should also note that they are now officially citizens of the new Galactic Empire," said Jenyah. Owen felt Beru gasp beside him and wondered how many people across the galaxy had made similar expressions of shock when listening to this broadcast. As for himself, he could only state blankly at the holoscreen, as the anchor added cheerily, "Everyone will be overjoyed to hear that the Supreme Chancellor they never wanted to leave office will be their Emperor—their leader—forever. In his speech before the Imperial Senate, formerly known as the Republic Senate, the Emperor guaranteed us safety and prosperity. I think that I speak for everybody when I express my overwhelming gratitude that we have a leader strong enough to bring us from the turmoil of war to the abundance of peace."

"Could her words, her teeth, and her hair be anymore artificial?" Owen snorted irritably as he flipped off the screen.

"I'm not worried about that." Beru elbowed him in the ribs. "I'm concerned about this Galactic Empire."

"Tatooine isn't part of the Republic," pointed out Owen, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "It won't be part of this new Empire, either."

"Yes, but is a galaxy where the greatest political entity is an empire under the control of one man who seems to only want more and more power a safe place for anyone?" Beru bit her lip. "Is even tiny Tatooine small enough to escape his notice? Is even the hinterland of the Outer Rim far enough away from him?"

"If we just continue to work hard and quietly on our farm, no government will bother us." Owen leaned forward to kiss the nervous furrows out of her forehead. "Relax. Our biggest fear will be the Tusken Raiders, as always."

"Yes, of course." Beru tried to put on her bravest smile, but her hands, stroking anxiously at her stomach, betrayed her. "It's just—I never thought I'd be happy to think that we aren't able to have a baby."

Owen closed his eyes, remembering the pain and shame of visiting the doctors in Anchorhead and Mos Eisley for all sorts of tests only to hear the heart-wrenching news that Beru would never be able to conceive a child. There were options for them, of course, the doctors had all been quick to assure them. There was adoption and artificial insemination even on rural Tatooine, but he and Beru, who had wanted to have their own child in the natural way, hadn't been able to bring themselves to consider any of those alternatives yet.

At the sharp beep of the comm unit that indicated an incoming transmission, Owen's eyes jerked open. "Receiving a message from Obi-Wan Kenobi, a friend of Anakin Skywalker's," reported the comm unit in its flat, mechanical manner. "Do you wish to answer?"

The part of Owen that wanted to keep out of anything to do with the Jedi the Empire sought to exterminate, even if he wasn't an Imperial citizen on Imperial soil, because he had seen on the holoscreen what those clone troopers could do and he didn't want to be on the wrong side of their blasters, screamed at him to refuse the transmission. Yet, the more courageous element in himself reminded him that Kenobi was Anakin's friend—the one who had been beside Anakin Skywalker as he risked life and limb in battle after battle. Shmi would want to hear any information Obi-Wan Kenobi could provide about her dear child.

"Yes," he told the unit after a long pause.

"Accepting transmission." The comm unit beeped, and, a second later, a ghostly miniature of a bearded man in flowing robes appeared.

"I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi." The figure offered a polite bow. "You must be Anakin's stepbrother, Owen Lars."

"That's right." Owen nodded. "This is my wife, Beru."

"My pleasure, madam." Again, the man bowed, this time directing the motion toward Beru. "I hate to seem rude, but I will have to make this communication as quick as possible. I don't know if you've heard any news lately—"

"We do get the holonews even on remote Tatooine, yes," Owen said tersely. "We know that the Clone Wars, your reason for being for the past few years, have ended all the sudden. We know that the Republic you fought for is now an Empire. We know that the Jedi Temple has been burned, at least some of the Jedi have been killed, and that the new Emperor, formerly the Chancellor of your Republic, is searching for those of you who have evaded his execution order. As such, we don't need you to provide us with a galactic news report. We just need you to tell us about Anakin. Is he alive or dead?'

Kenobi flinched at the question, but responded steadily enough. "Anakin's dead, but his legacy goes on. He has a newborn son who needs a home, because his mother died in childbirth."

"Padme dead?" demanded Beru, tears welling in her eyes. Like a stab in the chest, Owen recalled how Beru had enjoyed talking and laughing with the confident, kind, and beautiful young lady who had accompanied Anakin to the Lars farm several years ago. They had bonded in the way that two unalike women sometimes did. It was hard to believe that somebody as young as Padme had died in childbirth, but, then again, it had been impossible to imagine that someone as youthful and healthy as Beru would be infertile.

Before Kenobi could answer in the affirmative, Beru shook her head, the tears now flowing down her cheeks, "Oh, stars. Life is so short. So terribly, terribly short, and I will never understand it."

"Padme's star will burn forever in the minds of those who knew her. She was a brave, intelligent, and compassionate woman. The galaxy is a lot emptier without her, and she will be missed." Kenobi ducked his head for a moment, and then forged on, "Her son—Anakin's child—needs a place to be raised away from an Empire that would kill him just for being the son of a powerful Jedi. Will you take him in and protect him? I know it's asking a lot, but—"

"You're too right, it is asking a lot, especially for a first meeting," snapped Owen, wishing that it would hurt Kenobi if he threw a wrench through the Jedi's holographic head. "It's asking us to risk our lives—because we can't be sure that Tatooine will remain out of Imperial reach—and _you_ were the one who killed Anakin Skywalker."

"I believe that was done by another." Kenobi was pure ice.

"Well, I don't!" Owen snarled, slamming his right fist against his left palm. "You Jedi took him away from his own mother. Now he's dead when he should be here, safe as she always wanted. You made him fight in a war to save a Republic that was doomed to become an Empire and that probably wasn't even worth saving even if it could have been rescued by Jedi heroics. You made him risk his life for a government that killed him without a qualm. You let the media make him out to be some sort of idol, flying into battle after battle without a cringe, and now, he dies as a traitor, barely a blip in the news of the day. Not even mentioned by name as among the dead Jedi. What a generous reward to a lifetime spent as a slave to a corrupt Republic!"

"Accusations at this point are a useless waste of time." Kenobi made a placatory gesture. "The fact remains that Anakin Skywalker is dead, and his newborn son needs a home. Will you provide it, or should I look for another guardian for the boy? Will you shelter and nourish the boy who may be our galaxy's greatest hope?"

It was on the tip of Owen's tongue to snarl that Anakin had been a fool, Owen wasn't about to raise the son of a fool as his own, and Kenobi could use his rear end as a filing cabinet for the greatest hope of his universe, when Beru stepped in smoothly, saying, "Taking in a child is a big responsibility. My husband and I would like to discuss the matter privately in the kitchen for a few moments. Please excuse us."

"Of course." All courtesy, Kenobi nodded. "Take your time."

As soon as Owen followed his wife into the kitchen, she spun on him, her face more furious than he had ever glimpsed it.

"You might have been too busy fighting for the position of alpha male to notice it," she hissed, crossing her arms across her chest, "but I wasn't. I'm not about to let our chance at having a child pass, even if you are. This is a chance to have the baby we wanted ever since we were married. Don't throw that away in a fit of temper and pride."

"The boy's not ours," Owen retorted. "He's Anakin's. Let dead Anakin look after his own son. He was apparently a lot more concerned about having an adventure under the pretext of saving the galaxy than about caring for his family."

"So, you're going to let his baby son, who has never done anything to hurt you, suffer because you think his father was too selfish and irresponsible?" Beru asked, shaking her head. "Don't be hard-headed and hard-hearted, Owen. Let's take the child in and love him. Then he'll be ours in every way that counts. You'll see."

"I don't know," Owen said, but he was wavering. He wanted a son so badly. He wanted a boy he could teach how to farm, how to shoot, and how to be handy with tools. He wanted a child he could raise to be fair and honest, as his own father had raised him. He wanted a child he could talk and joke with, as he used to with his father. He wanted a young heart to keep him and his wife from getting too old too quickly in this harsh desert. "You want this really badly, don't you?"

"You should, too," chided Beru, arching an eyebrow at him. "The boy in question happens to be the grandchild of Shmi Skywalker—the woman who raised you and loved you as a son even though you shared not a drop of blood with her. Are you truly going to shove away a baby Shmi Skywalker would have welcomed with hugs and kisses?"

"Very well," Owen conceded, knowing that his stepmother's ghost would nag him in the most loving manner possible for the rest of his life if he refused to take in her grandson. "I'll do it for you, for Mom, and for the innocent baby, but I will not do it for Anakin Skywalker, the selfish fool."

"That's all I need to hear." Melting back into the affectionate creature Owen needed and loved, Beru kissed her husband gently on the lips. "Now you're talking sense."

"No," he corrected, brushing a lock of dark hair away from her face. "I'm talking emotional mumbo-jumbo now."

"Before you were talking angry mumbo-jumbo. Now you are talking loving mumbo-jumbo." Beru tapped him on the nose. "I consider that an improvement."

"I guess we better let Kenobi know we will be taking the boy." Owen grunted, walking toward the living room once more.

As he and Beru returned to the sofa, he said, "You'll be happy to know, Kenobi, that Beru and I are willing to raise the boy as our own son. What's the boy's name, by the way? You didn't say."

"Luke," Kenobi informed them, "but you can change it if you would like."

"We wouldn't want to confuse the baby." Beru shook her head.

"Luke is a solid name," Owen put in, thinking that Anakin could have been faulted for many things, but giving his son an awful name could not be listed among his shortcomings. Luke was a short and sensible name for a boy. Then, trying the boy's full name for the first time to see how it felt against his tongue, he said, "Luke Skywalker. As far as names go, it could be much worse."

"You can feel free to give Luke your surname, if you wish," Kenobi told them.

"Luke Lars is too alliterative." Owen's jaw twisted. "It sounds too cute or like the parents who named the kid are begging for some sort of recognition for their creativity. He'll carry the name Skywalker in honor of his grandmother, the only Skywalker I knew worth honoring."

"I'll come by your homestead at around dusk two days from now. Please call me Ben Kenobi in all future communications." All serenity, Kenobi seemed to ignore the insult to the memory of his best friend. "Thank you again for taking in what may be the galaxy's only hope."

"Luke's going to be a regular farmer." Glaring at the holographic figure in a stern warning, Owen placed his hands firmly on his chest. "He's not going to be tricked into playing the hero for some government that could care less whether he lives or dies. He's not going to go running off on selfish adventures. He's going to live safely with his family. He's not going to be some sort of Jedi, so you can stop calling him your hope right now, Kenobi."

"I'll stop saying it, but I won't stop thinking it." With that final defiance, Kenobi disappeared from the comm unit.

"Arrogant fool," grumbled Owen, switching off the comm unit. Then, remembering that babies needed cradles, food, blankets, toys, and books, he muttered, "I suppose you'll be wanting to travel to Anchorhead tomorrow to buy everything we need to raise our little Luke."

"Oh, I don't think we can buy everything in Anchorhead." Beru chuckled, massaging Owen's neck. "I think we'll have to make the patience and the wisdom ourselves."

"We're farmers." Owen reached back to rub her fingers. "We're used to making things."


	2. Chapter 2

Preparations

The next day, Owen and Beru rose before dawn. In the hazy gray light, Owen finished the chores, such as switching on the vaporators, that the farm could not function even one day without him performing. Meanwhile, Beru heated up a pot of caf and fried some hawkbat eggs.

"I've made a list of all the items we'll need to get for Luke today," she told Owen when he returned from his chores, placing two steaming mugs of caf on the table along with two plates of sunny-side-up eggs. Pulling a piece of flimsi from her pocket, she handed it to her husband.

Owen glanced down at the list. It contained many items that he could have thought of himself: formula, bottles, bibs, crib, blankets, books, toys, diapers, and clothes. However, it also included a host of necessary baby care equipment he would not have thought of until it was too late: a monitor to hear Luke's cries, changing table and mat, diaper bag, speeder seat, sling to carry a baby in, cream for rashes, and a diaper pail.

"Are you sure this will all fit in the house?" he asked through a mouthful of egg as he gave his wife back the list.

"Of course." Chuckling, Beru added cream and sugar to her caf, and, for the hundredth time, he wondered how she could tolerate it tainted by all those flavors, instead of strong and black, as he preferred his.

"Well, it's lucky you wrote it all down," he said, sipping at his caf and letting it seep into his veins, waking him for a day of shopping, a task he never enjoyed, no matter how necessary the things he purchased were (and the items he bought were always necessary).

"I know that we can go back to Anchorhead if we forget anything important, but I want to do _this_—" Beru waved her hand, somehow managing to encompass all of parenting in that simple gesture—"right the first time from the very beginning."

"We'll get through raising a child together as we get through everything else," Owen answered her firmly.

"And what are we going to tell the world about our child when they ask how a barren woman gave birth to a boy, or why he is called Skywalker when our last name is Lars?" Beru wanted to know, her anxiety apparent in the way she stabbed at her eggs with her fork.

"I thought about that last night," Owen responded gruffly, glad that he was able to think about at least some aspects of protecting and providing for Luke. Between him and his wife, the child would be well looked after. "We'll say that he is the child of an obscure relative of mine from my homeworld, Ator. We'll explain that his mother died in childbirth, and his father, a navigator on a freight ship, died when the vessel he was on crashed. We'll tell anyone who asks that Luke's last name is a tribute to my stepmother, Shmi Skywalker."

"Anakin Skywalker—a navigator on a freight ship." Beru laughed softly as she carried their empty dishes back to the kitchen. As she rinsed the plates, cups, and utensils, she called back to him, "He would see that as quite a diminishment of what he achieved on account of his piloting during the war."

"I don't see that he accomplished that much," Owen answered, wiping down the table with a towel and hearing her place the rinsed dishes into the turbo dish cleaner.

"Yes." Beru nodded, as they left the house, locked it, and climbed into their speeder. "The name Anakin Skywalker has faded rather fast from the galaxy."

In the driver's seat, Owen turned the key in the ignition, hit the accelerator, and sent the vehicle shooting out of the yard, away from their farm and out into the lonely desert in the direction that would ultimately lead them to Anchorhead.

"Shmi would be grieved." Owen fixed his gaze on the orange dunes flickering past, pretending he didn't feel the sting of the sand that the wind flicked into his eyes. Then, deciding not to think about how much his stepmother had suffered in her life, he grunted, "Now that we know our story, we should comm your brother when we return home. We can stop by the Sidi Driss to speak to your sister to tell her the good news this afternoon. We want as few awkward moments as possible at the next family gathering."

"That's true," agreed Beru, "and it's not like I wouldn't welcome an excuse to speak with Haro and Dama."

Aware that Beru liked to see Dama whenever she went into Anchorhead and that she made a habit of contacting her siblings at least once a week to hear news about their families, Owen nodded. The excitement the Whitesun siblings felt when a child did well on an exam or a spiceloaf recipe turned our particularly delicious proved to Owen that a person didn't need to experience the adrenaline rush of adventure after adventure to lead a thrilling life.

"So, how is Gael doing, anyway?" he asked, referring to Dama's only child.

"Still in the terrible two's," answered Beru, grinning wryly. "The way Dama tells it, Gael's favorite word, which he uses almost every time someone speaks to him, is 'no,' and his favorite hobby is throwing things."

"Then I am definitely looking forward to seeing the little charmer this afternoon." Owen snorted. "Well, I suppose that it's good practice for when Luke enters the terrible two's."

"Don't talk like that," scolded Beru, shuddering at the very idea of Luke's terrible two's. "We have two years to go before we have to worry about surviving what Dama and her husband are going through."

"Oh, yes, and just think how many dirty diapers away that is," Owen commented dryly. "It really puts things in perspective, doesn't it?"

"Let no one ever accuse you of being an optimist." Shaking her head, Beru smiled.

"If they did, I'd be offended." Owen's lips twisted upward. "I'm a realist."

After fifteen more minutes of conversation about Haro's daughters, they arrived in Anchorhead and parked their speeder on the road outside the clothing store. They disembarked the speeder and entered the shop to the tinkling of a bell the owner had affixed on the door handle to alert her to the arrival of customers.

"May I help you find anything today?" The proprietor glanced up from checking the inventory on her datapad to pose this question this to the Larses'.

"We're looking for baby clothes," replied Beru.

"In the back left corner, ma'am." The lady behind the counter pointed at a series of metal racks filled with small pink and blue garments in the rear left corner. "We have clothes there for both genders and the most predominant species on Tatooine. Very reasonably priced, too. Buy one outfit get one of equal or lesser price for fifty percent off. That sort of offer doesn't come along every day, so you'd better take advantage of it."

"Thank you." Politely, Beru nodded at the proprietor, and then led her husband over to the baby section, since Owen was not comfortable with fashion in general and baby fashion in particular.

While Owen stood around awkwardly and mainly as a holder for the clothes she was considering buying for Luke, Beru rummaged through the rack, selecting from the collection of blue clothes for newborns three sets of pajamas, a sweater, three one-piece outfits, two shirts, and two pants. They were making their way to the register with the clothes that Beru had chosen when a buxom blonde woman—their neighbor, Quianna Starkiller- approached them from behind a rack of pants.

"Beru! Owen!" she exclaimed. "I've been meaning to invite you two over for lunch sometime, but there just hasn't been time, because baby Windy has been keeping me so busy. Oh, are those baby clothes in your hands? Have you decided to adopt?"

"In a manner of speaking," responded Owen, shrugging. "We're taking in the son of a distant relation of mine from my homeworld, Ator. The boy's mother died in childbirth, and his father, a freight navigator, was killed when the ship crashed. We'll be calling the boy Luke Skywalker in honor of my stepmother, Shmi."

"The poor dear, losing his parents when he's just a baby." Sympathetically, Quianna clicked her tongue against her teeth. Then, she leaned forward to plant a swift kiss on Beru's cheek. "But he is blessed to have such wonderful relatives to take him in. He couldn't ask for better parents than the two of you. So, it's settled. You simply must come over for lunch. I'll comm you later on this week to arrange a date. See you soon."

With that, she disappeared back into the clothing racks, and the Larses made their way to the counter, where they paid for their purchases. They left the shop and continued down the street to a furniture store, where they bought a crib and changing table, making arrangements for the furniture to be delivered to their house the next day.

As they exited the furniture shop, the full strength of the midday Tatooine sun burned into the back of their necks and shoulders, so Beru suggested, "Let's go to the Sidi Driss Inn and have Dama treat us to lunch and a cool drink."

The instant they arrived outside the glass doors of the inn, the doorman, Vik, recognized them.

"Come in, come in," he urged, guiding them into the lobby with its gorgeous white marble that had streaks of rose and bluebell in it. Gesturing for them to take a seat on one of the crimson veda divans, Vik assured them, "I"ll inform Mrs. Brunk that you're here. Wait just one moment, please."

With that, he bustled down a hallway off the lobby. Trying to avoid the stares of the tourists in the lobby, who doubtlessly were wondering how distinguished personages worthy of such special treatment could come in such shabby attire, Owen and Beru studied a gently babbling miniature fountain placed on the black caf table before their settee.

Fortunately, the awkward interval in the lobby was not destined to last long, for Vik soon returned. Hurrying up to them, he announced in his clipped fashion, "Mrs. Brunk says she'll see you in her office. I'm to take you there immediately. Please follow me."

Briskly, Vik escorted them out of the lobby and down a carpeted corridor until they reached a door with a platinum plaque proclaiming: Mrs. Dama Brunk. Vik bowed them inside and then departed, shutting the door in his wake, as Dama threw her arms around first her sister and then her brother-in-law in her usual crushing welcome.

"Delighted to see you two again," she trilled, her beam reflected in her lively, dust-colored eyes. Then, turning to look at a boy with light brown hair and eyes the shade of warra nuts, who was sprawled on a chair, drawing, probably (if Beru's report on his rebellious stage was accurate) not being careful to avoid marking the furniture, she ordered, "Get up, Gael, and say hello to Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen."

"Hello, Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen," Gael chirped, complying with his mother's second but not first command. "Did you bring me a gift?"

"It's not your birthday or a holiday, so no, we didn't bring you a present," Owen answered crisply, thinking that he preferred the days when Dama's son couldn't talk and whine.

"And it's rude to ask people if they brought you a gift," chided Dama, waving an admonishing finger at her child. "If they brought you one, they'll give it to you without you reminding them."

"But I want a present." Pouting, Gael kicked the chair cushion.

"And I want to enjoy Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen's visit," Dama responded levelly. "If you can't behave, I'll send you to your room until they're gone."

Sighing sulkily, Gael resumed his drawing.

"I'm sorry for his disagreeable behavior." Dama smiled as she waved her hand at a septsilk sofa, indicating that Beru and Owen should sit down there. Nodding at a tray full of sandwiches and iced quintberry tea resting on her desk, she went on, "Please help yourself to some refreshments."

"We don't mind your son's behavior." Beru grinned. "It gives us some insight into what we'll be going through soon enough."

"Are you adopting?" demanded Dama, leaning forward excitedly. "I didn't know that you had decided—"

"The decision was made for us, in many ways," Owen explaine, biting into a sandwich. "His father, a distant relation of mine from my homeplanet of Ator, was killed when the freighter he was navigating crashed, and his mother died in childbirth. We're taking the baby and calling him Luke Skywalker in honor of my stepmother, Shmi."

"Such a sad start to life, but at least he has a wonderful family to take him in." Dama bent forward and began rifling through Beru's bad of baby clothes, remarking merrily, "Oh, how adorable. I love baby clothes. Luke will look perfectly handsome in these."

When she finished admiring their purchases, she concluded more seriously, "I must send you home with the baby toys Gael doesn't play with, the monitor, the sling I used to carry him around in, the diaper bag and diaper pail, the bottles and pacifiers, and the clothes he outgrew since little Luke will be outgrowing these cute clothes you bought him soon enough."

"How come I didn't think of using you as a resource?" gasped Beru, mouth agape at how much money she and Owen could have wasted.

"Younger sisters always have the brightest ideas." Dama gave her most dazzling smile. "Just nobody ever thinks to ask them, even when they're hoping to see all the baby stuff they purchased get a bit more use."

"I don't want to give the new baby my stuff," stated a scowling Gael. "It's mine, and he can't have it, because I don't like him."

"Tough luck, Gael." Dama shook her head. "Luke's parents have just died. The least you can do is give him the things you don't use any more."

"The baby gets presents, and I don't." Gael's glower deepened, and he folded his arms across his chest petulantly. "Not fair."

"Stop complaining." Dama scooped up her sulking son, balanced him on her hip, and stepped out of her office, tossing to Beru and Owen over her shoulder, "Stay here and eat while I put in bags the cargo load of baby stuff I want to shove off on you."

"I'm favored by the stars with an amazing sister." Smiling contentedly, Beru melted into the sofa and leaned her cheek against her husband's shoulder. "She always gives more than I could think to imagine."

"Outlanders says people from Tatooine are selfish in order to survive a tough environment," observed Owen, kissing his wife's forehead, "but the most selfless people I know are from here, and they would say that selflessness is really the only way to live on a harsh world like this."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I'm sorry this chapter is a bit short, but I thought that this moment is kind of powerful enough to stand on its own. I'll try to update again soon to make up for this shorter chapter.

Epiphany

Owen stood on a dune, overlooking an expanse of sand covered by his moisture vaporators, and staring into the setting of the twin suns. Those suns made Tatooine a scorching desert planet, but they also gave the world truly spectacular dusks, providing awesome beauty to atone for their harsh beatings. When she was alive, his stepmother had loved to gaze off into the sunset, watching the orange and red sky darken into black with yellow pinpricks of stars that were the suns of hundreds of planets. Even now, he could almost feel her beside him, gentle arm wrapped around his shoulder, wondering what faraway sun was setting on her lost on over what strange world.

Shmi Skywalker had loved Anakin. She had treated Cliegg and Owen to a thousand stories about Anakin's kindness, generosity, and courage. She had talked about how creative he was, and how he had managed to build his own droid and Podracer. She had described the Podraces he participated in on Watto's orders and how his lightning reflexes always saved him from a fiery doom, but, somewhere a million parsecs from Tatooine, his quick reflexes hadn't been able to save him from a death that was probably so gruesome Owen didn't want to imagine it.

There were a lot of things Owen didn't want to imagine about Anakin, actually, like how he had killed all the Tusken Raider in order to rescue his mother's battered body. Owen also didn't care to think about the rage and madness that had simmered in Anakin's eyes as he carried Shmi back to the farm and buried her with the rest of them. Owen didn't have a quarrel with Anakin's decision to slay the Tusken Raiders, because he had shot a dozen himself in the first unsuccessful attempt to save his stepmother, but Anakin looked like he would have torn Owen, Cliegg, and Beru to shreds if it would return Shmi to life. Owen had never looked at another farmer, an ally against the brutality of the Tusken Raiders, like that. Owen knew the difference between a friend and an enemy, but Anakin didn't, and maybe that was why Anakin was dead right now, lying on an unknown world with nobody to mourn him.

An eopie mewled, and Owen titled his head briefly around to see Kenobi, whose parental instincts were plainly even more abysmal than Owen's since he had not thought to bring a child's seat. That fool Kenobi must have been relying on the Force to keep the baby from falling and bashing his skull against a boulder. With logic and instincts as sharp as Kenobi's, it was a marvel the Jedi had managed to last for so many centuries. It was just lucky that Luke wasn't sobbing uncontrollably with nerves but maybe he had inherited his father's recklessness and complete lack of survival instincts.

Owen shuddered. He hoped not. He wanted the boy to have more of Shmi's quiet strength and steady courage than of Anakin's untamable fury and wild bravery.

Beru, who Owen had informed quite emphatically that he had no intention of looking at Kenobi or touching hands while taking Luke, emerged from the house, where she had been scrubbing the dinner dishes, and accepted Luke from Kenobi's arms.

Wearing a smile that seemed to say all her dreams had come true at once, she walked over to Owen with little Luke snuggled in her arms, warm and secure in a blanket because Kenobi at least had thought of that.

Owen gazed down into the bright baby blue eyes—that for a few weeks had the potential of turning any color or the uneasy promise of staying the same brilliant shade—and the soft skin, unhardened by the rough winds of life. He realized that he felt love at first sight for this baby, just as he had for Beru. It didn't matter to him now if Luke were more like Anakin or Shmi. He would love Luke no matter who he became or what crazy stunts he pulled simply because the boy was his to love and to protect. Luke's eyes were so innocent, as they calmly drank in the world around him, that it was impossible not to feel your heart melting like ice left outside at midday. To Luke, everything from the sand and the sky, seemed like a miracle, and, to Owen, that made Luke a miracle. It was impossible for Owen not to see himself reflected in those wide eyes and to want to be worthy of that trusting gaze.

Feeling like Luke might fade like a mirage the moment he reached out to touch him, Owen tenderly stroked Luke's forehead, astonished both by the baby's solidity and softness. He could feel Kenobi's eyes cutting into his back, as if searching for some undeniable proof that delivering Luke to the Lars homestead had been the right choice, but he didn't have any energy to waste on animosity toward Kenobi at the present, and, in the end, it seemed like Kenobi found whatever evidence he was seeking, for, after a moment of staring hard at the three figures on the dune, Kenobi turned away and mounted the eopie.

Kenobi had disappeared and twilight had descended in a veil of blackness and stars before Beru murmured, "The night's getting cold. Let's get Luke a bottle and put him to bed."


	4. Chapter 4

Threats to Peace

Owen was scowling down at his datapad, busy filling out a spreadsheet to calculate whether the increased production of a new vaporator on South Ridge would be worth the initial outlay of buying the machine and the regular cost of repairs when Beru entered the living room, carrying a pajama-clad Luke, who smelled strongly of the soap in which he had just been bathed.

Understanding after a few weeks of learning the hard way that it was impossible to achieve any sort of higher order thinking in the presence of Luke, who never hesitated to coo shrilly in amusement or howl at the top of his lungs when experiencing the slightest distress, Owen grunted and shut his datapad. He would return to his business choices once Luke had been put to bed, where he would probably sleep for three hours before waking up with cries that demanded feeding or cuddling.

Owen watched as his wife settled Luke gently on the soft baby blanket in the corner and began to entertain him with one of the boy's favorite nonsense games. Taking hold of Luke's foot, which the wide-eyed baby always seemed amazed to discover was a part of his body, Beru tugged lightly on one toe after another, crooning, "This little dewback went to market. This little dewback stayed home. This little dewback had roast bantha. This little dewback had none. And this little dewback went 'wee,wee,wee' all the way home."

Deciding that listening to the holonews anchor recount all the major dreadful events of the day would be slightly less painful than hearing every childish rhyme game his wife knew, Owen switched on the holoscreen and turned to the galactic news channel. Currently, the station was broadcasting an advertisement for some lotion guaranteed to reduce hair loss in elderly Bothans by up to eighty-percent, which provided Owen time to speculate on how bad the news would be tonight.

Last week, the major news bulletins had all being about how Bandomeer, an Outer Rim planet renowned for its mines, had been taken over by Imperial troops. Those broadcasts had always made him grateful that Tatooine had no remarkable resources that made it worth the trouble of wrestling from the grip of the greedy Hutt crimelords. The Empire had richer planets with less austere climate to subdue. The holonews made that plain every night.

Owen certainly didn't want to think about how the Empire was consolidating its position as ultimate political power in the universe. Jenyah, the peppy newsanchor, chirped every evening about how Lord Vader, the strong and brilliant commander who was loved and trusted by the Emperor (who had made him second-in-command in the evolving hierarchy of the Empire), was responsible for the victory on Bandomeer. Lord Vader with his black mask, black armor, and billowing black robes appeared menacing rather than trustworthy to Owen. His bearing was cold, at least on the holonews, and his actions, no matter how the holonews twirled them, seemed even more cruel. Lord Vader was someone you hoped would stay a million parsecs away from your home, because he would sooner burn it than defend it. If he came near you, you could probably only wish for a quick, relatively painless death.

As if Owen's grim thoughts had summoned him, Lord Vader materialized on theholoscreen, cutting down first a squad of clone commandos and then a Jedi (whom Owen noted derisively used her lightsaber to less defensive capability than many sentients would a broom) with a blazing crimson blade. A moment after this gory image filled the holoscreen, Jenyah's beaming face shone from behind her polished desk.

"Welcome back, viewers," she trilled. "What you just saw was Lord Vader effectively squashing the beginnings of a localized revolt in a small rank of clone troops on Murkhana. When the Jedi committed treason against out august leader, plotting to assassinate our beloved Emperor, a squad of clones refused to execute their Jedi officers, as commanded by our wise and noble Emperor. Lord Vader, dear to all of us who love the Empire because of his loyal service to the Empire and because of the affection our beloved Emperor has for him, efficiently carried out the death sentence these rebellious troopers earned as a result of their mutiny. One of the Jedi officers was successfully executed by Lord Vader, whose sword has brought so much order and law to the Empire already. The other Jedi officers are in hiding, and all lovers of the Empire are urged, as ever, to report to the authorities immediately anyone suspected of being a Jedi or harboring sympathies for such terrible traitors."

"Must you listen to such stuff?" Beru asked, turning away from the game she was playing with Luke long enough to raise an eyebrow at her husband.

From her pale cheeks, Owen could see that she was thinking the Empire would slay them if it was discovered that they were raising the son of a powerful Jedi and that they had communicated with (and not reported) a living Jedi famous for his feats during the Clone Wars, which already were beginning to feel like a distant era.

"Luke shouldn't be hearing such things," she added, her eyes heavy with reproach.

"He doesn't understand a word of it, and I need to know what's going on in the world if I'm to keep him protected from it," muttered Owen, but he flipped off the holonews, because Jenyah was now talking about a group of whiny Coruscanti who were suing a fast food chain for not explaining on the menu how fatty triple bantha burgers were. He thought that the less he knew about the idiocy and whininess of typical Core citizens, the saner and happier he would be.

"Babies understand tone, Owen," Beru pointed out, all lightness as she made a series of funny faces that caused Luke to coo in delight.

"You should have said so sooner," Owen told her crisply. "Now imagine if he goes around speaking in Jenyah's annoyingly happy voice all the time. I'll end up shooting myself or him."

"If I didn't know you were an old softie on the inside, your twisted sense of humor would terrify me," Beru answered wryly, continuing her face game with the very entertained and squealing Luke.

Before Owen could respond, the comm unit beeped and announced in its flat, mechanical monotone, "Incoming transmission from Ben Kenobi."

"I thought he was done bothering us," grumbled Owen, shooting a perturbed glance at Beru, who looked as serene as ever. "He has already changed our world enough for three lifetimes."

"Stop complaining, and answer the comm, dear," Beru ordered calmly. "I'm too busy with Luke to carry on a conversation with Kenobi."

"I'm always too busy to talk to Kenobi." Owen glowered, but snapped at the comm unit, "Accept the transmission."

"Accepting transmission, sir," the comm unit informed him. There was a whirring noise, and, a second later, Kenobi appeared as a miniature ghost above the comm unit.

"Good evening." Kenobi gave the polite bow that made Owen want to behead him. "I hope that you aren't too busy to talk this evening."

"Luke is about to be put to bed," Owen replied stiffly, aiming to convey by this that he and Beru had quite enough on their parental plates without any extra servings from exiled Jedi. "Then I have to make some important business decisions so that he'll have shelter over his head."

"I understand that you're busy." Kenobi's voice took on the diplomatic, placatory quality of one who was about to dismiss everything the other person had just said. "However, I'm afraid that we must talk tonight. It won't be safe to do so over the comm system. I'll drop by your homestead in half an hour to discuss something important with you and Beru. See you in a few minutes."

Kenobi flickered out of the comm unit before Owen, who was sputtering like a boiling teapot in his ire, could snarl that Kenobi would be coming over soon only when Tatooine was frozen over like Hoth.

"Arrogant Jedi scum," he growled, eyes blazing with fury as he wished the desert winds would carry his bitter words to smug Kenobi. "Inviting himself over to my house as if we were the best of friends when I hate his guts, which I really want to rip out right now."

Luke, sensitive as ever to the emotional currents in a room, burst into piteous wails, as if Owen had barked at _him_.

"Shh," soothed Beru, rocking Luke as she gathered the sobbing baby in her arms and carried him toward his bedroom. "Uncle Owen isn't mad at you, love, and he didn't mean what he said."

Owen's remorse over bringing his innocent nephew to tears kept him for pointing out to his wife that he had meant every unpleasant word he had said about Kenobi.

As she headed down the hallway, Beru tossed over her shoulder, "Owen, head to the kitchen. Take out a glass of juma juice and some spice rolls, please."

Going to the kitchen to do as his wife requested, Owen registered his displeasure with the entire situation by mumbling, "The jerk invites himself over at all hours of the night, and my wife wants to treat him like an honored guest. Life is one big lesson in irony."

He had laid out the refreshments and Beru had finished putting Luke to bed when Kenobi arrived—on foot, rather than by speeder or eopie, as any sane being would if circumstances forced them to travel out after dark in Tusken Raider territory.

"You need to learn some healthy fear of the Tusken raiders," Owen commented tersely to Kenobi, as the fool seated himself in a chair at the table, having exchanged pleasantries with Beru that Owen had pointedly refrained from partaking in.

"The Tusken Raiders have a healthy fear of me." Kenobi gave the mystical grin that made Owen long to remove it forcibly from his cheeks. "They think I'm a dangerous old wizard liken you do, Owen."

"Bah." Owen's scowl deepened as Beru passed around full glasses of juice. "If you haven't come over just to insult me, perhaps you could explain why you have insisted upon inviting yourself over to my house."

"I have a tremendous respect for you and your wife's time." Kenobi inclined his head, all graciousness, as if he was a guest rather than an intruder. "I'll try to get to the point as fast as possible. Now, I don't know if either of you have been keeping up with the holonews, but a figure named Lord Vader has featured prominently in several recent broadcasts."

"There's living on a rock in the Outer Rim, and then there's living under ten meters of solid bedrock." Owen snorted, trying and failing to cool his hot temper with a gulp of cold juma juice. "Guess which one not hearing about the scourge of the Emperor's new reign is."

"If you've seen the broadcasts about Vader, you may have observed that he has something of a campaign going to annihilate the reaming Jedi." Kenobi took a delicate bite of a spice roll, and then continued darkly, "Vader is a terrible threat to Luke. If he discover Luke, he will either kill the child outright or turn the boy into a monster like Vader himself, because Luke isn't just the son of a powerful Jedi—he is the son of Vader."

"Excuse me?" gasped Beru, clearly convinced it was impossible for their sweet baby to be the child of a ruthless murderer who was shown mowing down bodies almost every night on the holonews.

"You said he was Anakin Skywalker's child!" Owen pounded his fist against the table, almost spilling his cup of juice. "Beru and I didn't agree to take in the child of some mass murderer."

"Luke is the son of Anakin Skywalker, but he is also the son of Vader, because Anakin and Vader are two names for the same man." Kenobi closed his eyes, as though saying these words alone wearied him.

"You said Anakin Skywalker was dead," snarled Owen, hating Kenobi more than he had any other liar—and liars were some of his least favorite people. "I asked you specifically, Kenobi, whether Anakin was dead, and you looked me in the eye and told me quite unequivocally that he was dead."

"From a certain point of view, I told you the truth." As if determined to infuriate Owen all the more, Kenobi kept his eyes shut. "The Anakin Skywalker that the entire galaxy knew and admired was dead to me and to himself the moment he started slaying Jedi, including innocent younglings, in the Temple. I thought that I destroyed the beast, Vader, who had killed Anakin and the other Jedi, but the recent news broadcasts show me that I only wounded him grievously, and he is now recovered enough to be a grave danger to the galaxy, especially to Luke. Luke's greatest protection is that Vader believes he died with his mother, whom Vader choked before he dueled with me."

"Anakin's been to our farm," Owen protested. "Luke isn't safe here. This is the first place Vader will look if he wants to be sure that he doesn't have a child."

Owen could feel his throat tighten, and he could see the tears welling in Beru's eyes. Neither of them wanted to lose their baby boy, but if Luke wasn't safe here, they would have to say good-bye, no matter how painful it was. It was more important that Luke live than that they be happy with an adopted son.

"Tatooine has too many painful memories for Vader to seek the planet out," Kenobi said quietly, as if every word sliced into his heart like his lightsaber. "Here he was enslaved for nine years. Here his beloved mother was killed by brutal Tusken Raiders."

"Here he slaughtered the tribe of Tusken raiders that captured his mother," Owen put in, feeling compelled to point out that Anakin Skywalker had been as much a monster as a hero or victim. "Not just the men, either. The women and the children, too. I don't judge a man harshly for killing Tusken Raider, because then I'd have to condemn myself for killing many of them, but I will tell you that I never saw anyone come back from killing them as frenzied as Anakin did. He looked crazy enough to kill my father, Beru, and me if that would bring Shmi back to life. Now, look me in the eye, Kenobi, and tell me that isn't sick."

"I didn't know." Kenobi sounded weak, as if he couldn't believe that his best friend had betrayed him twice. "Anakin never said."

"It was probably from you that he learned to lie to hide painful truths," Owen hissed spitefully, glaring at the man who had ruined his stepmother's precious son. "Shmi Skywalker brought him up right, but then you Jedi came and dragged him away to your stupid Temple that is in ashes now. You made him fight your war for you against the Sepratists. You made him see things he shouldn't have seen, and do things he shouldn't have done. Then you act all surprised by the monster that you have created. You are shocked to discover that it was a murderer, not a hero, fighting by your side all these years. It makes you a little less of a hero, doesn't it?"

"I never claimed to be a hero." Breathing heavily, Kenobi shook his head. "That was the Holonet, and we've seen lately how accurate the Holonet is."

"We've also seen how truthful you are." All ice, Owen crossed his arms over his chest. "I'll never forget that you lied to me about Anakin still being alive."

"I was only trying to protect Luke by ensuring that you knew the minimum required to keep him safe." Kenobi sighed, and there was a world of sorrow in that sound. "Just keep him safe and raise him well. Teach him to be brave, honest, and strong. That's all I ask."

"Oh, that's all you ask. You make it sound so simple, but you couldn't teach Anakin to be brave, honest, and strong, could you?" Owen sneered. "I assure you that we'll be raising Luke to be brave, honest, and strong for ourselves and for him, but certainly not for you."

"We want what is best for Luke, just as you do, and we will always do everything in our power to protect him from all threats," Beru assured Kenobi, placing a pacifying hand on Owen's wrist. "Thank you for informing us of just how grave a threat Vader is to Luke."

"No, thank you for taking Luke in and agreeing to keep him safe from the Empire." Kenobi rose and gave a final bow as he headed toward the door, adding over his shoulder, "The spice rolls were a real treat, thank you, Beru."

"Well, the man may be a fool, but he does recognize good cooking when he eats it," grunted Owen as Kenobi walked away into the night. "That probably means he'll be showing up uninvited at least once a week to see what refreshments you'll offer him."

"I'm not worried about that." Beru's fingers squeezed around Owen's wrist. "I'm afraid of what might happen to our Luke."

"We're moisture farmers in the hind end of nowhere. Nobody will care about a little boy who lives with us. Even the Empire has better people than us to oppress and terrorize, or so the holonews would indicate," Owen said. Then, before he could stop himself, he confessed, "What I worry about is if I'll be able to see Luke in the same way now that I know his father is the man inflicting horror after horror upon the galaxy. What if every time I look in Luke's eyes, I see Vader's mask? What if every time I see him get angry, I picture him slaying a bunch of people? What if all I see in Luke is Vader? What if I don't see a baby but a killer?"

In answer, Beru rose, disappeared down the hallway, and returned a moment later with a sleeping Luke wrapped in a blanket in her arms. Gazing at the peacefully sleeping boy, Owen realized, once again, that the child was not the father, but his own small and definitely not self-sufficient person. As Luke grew, he would have Owen and Beru there to love, guide, and protect him. Luke would be taught right from wrong, and, when he had the choice between the two, he would choose right much more often than not, because that would be kind of person he was raised to be. Luke's moral destiny was something he would decide for himself, not a trait that he could inherit from his fallen father.

"We'll raise him right." Owen met his wife's gaze firmly. "Twenty years from now, we won't be torturing ourselves by asking a million times where we went wrong with him. We won't be wondering whether we should have been more or less stern with him, or if we should have carried him more or less when he was a baby, or talked to him more or less when he was a toddler. He'll be a good person, and we'll know that even if we messed up a few things, we can't have done too badly, because he turned out well."

"He's got a charming disposition." Beru kissed the blond fuzz that was starting to grow on Luke's head. "He is so quick to smile when we smile, and to imitate with a coo our funny faces. His eyes are so wide, taking in everything about his environment. He is clever and kind, I just know it. He'll make us so proud that we were there at his beginnings."

"Good thing he can't understand a word you're saying, or his head would be three sizes too big," Owen said gruffly, but he rested a gentle hand on Luke's head, feeling the tender flesh of the fontanelle—that infant softness necessary for birth that would develop within a few months' time into a child's literal hardheadedness. "But, if he understands tone as you say, he knows that we love him, and that's all that matters."

"He doesn't understand us in his sleep, Owen." Beru chuckled quietly. "Speaking of which, I'd better return him to his bed so we can get some sleep before he wakes us up wanting a bottle."


	5. Chapter 5

Family Reunion

Days on the Lars homestead were always busy, but the last two weeks had been almost frenetic. First, there had been the week of harvest—gathering the water from the vaporators, transferring it into smaller containers for transportation and sale, and then loading those canisters onto speeders for transport into Anchorhead, Mos Eisley, and Mos Espa to be sold and delivered to customers. Then there had been the wearying days of actual selling and delivering and paying the extra hands who had been hired to help with the harvest.

Now, the hired hands had disappeared with the desert wind, back to the settlements to seek out more employment opportunities open to migrant workers, and the farm would seem unnaturally calm for the next couple of days until the next season began in earnest, but, before that happened, there would be the two day long visit to Beru's brother Haro's farm, which was the traditional location for the Whitesun clan post-harvest celebration: two days of feasting that Beru had been cooking extravagant dishes in preparation for during every spare moment over the past few days.

"Are we feeding an army or just your family?" Owen asked, arching an eyebrow, as he always did, when he saw the trays of marinated meats, platters of fresh bread and jam, bowls of fruit and vegetable salads coated in a variety of dressings, and plates overflowing with cookies that Beru expected him to help her carry to the speeder.

"My family _is _an army." Chuckling, Beru picked up Luke, who had been stretched on a blanket in the corner of the room, babbling to himself in a stream of sounds that only made sense to his six-month self and staring at the food, probably never having seen so much of it gathered in one place before. She balanced Luke carefully on her hip, and then swung a large bag- filled with baby clothes, bottles, baby food, diapers, Luke's favorite toys, and a baby blanket—over her opposite shoulder. Then, with her free hand, she grabbed a small plate of cookies and stepped outside into the piercing brightness of the morning sun.

"I'm not sure all this will fit in the back with our luggage," muttered Owen, taking as much food as he could handle without dropping anything out to the speeder.

As Owen positioned the food in the trunk beside his and Beru's duffle bags, Beru strapped Luke into his seat, and opened the baby bag to hand Luke his most loved and most chewed toy, a giant squishy ball. Normally, just holding this toy was a sufficient distraction to end all but Luke's most passionate crying fits, so Owen sincerely hoped that the toy would keep Luke entertained on the ride to Haro's farm.

"Ba!" Delighted, Luke called out the sound that was the closest he could come to saying 'ball,' and clapped the toy in his hands, instantly bringing it to his mouth for some intense, explorative chewing.

As Beru bent over Luke—probably to tell him all about the journey they were about to make even though he wouldn't understand a word—Owen collected the rest of the mountain of food from the house and stowed it in the speeder's trunk.

When he had hopped into the driver's seat, Beru kissed Luke's forehead, and then climbed into the passenger side next to her husband.

"Let me review the girls' ages, so I don't make a fool of myself," Owen said, as he pulled the speeder out of their yard, flying toward Haro's homestead. "Ara, the oldest, is twelve. Trisha, the middle child, is ten. Vania, the youngest, is eight."

"That's right." With a smile, his wife nodded. "I don't know why you always ask when you always know."

"Then let's continue to test my recall." Owen smirked, thinking that, over the years, he had probably memorized enough facts about his nieces that he would make millions of credits in the highly improbable event that he was ever a contestant on a trivia show about them. "Ara is quite the control freak, always telling her little sisters what to do, but she always does her chores without asking. She is very useful in the kitchen, in particular, and around the farm, in general. She will probably have made at least one special dessert to share with us all. Trisha is the silent scholar, always getting top grades in school, creating gorgeous pictures, and making peace between Ara and Vania. We can be sure that Trisha will draw us at least five pictures before we leave. Vania is the family entertainer—always making jokes, forever putting on a performance, and never content to be anything less than the center of attention—and we can be sure that we will see her put on a show sometime during our stay. What very different girls those sisters are."

"That's not uncommon," commented Beru, shrugging. Then, shooting a concerned glance over her shoulder at Luke, who was pounding cheerfully at the ball with his fists, she added, "I know that the girls will be nice to Luke. They're at the age where they'll want to play with him, pick him up, and adore him, but how will Gael react to Luke? He liked being the youngest cousin, and he wasn't happy about giving Luke his old clothes and toys, remember."

"Gael's temper tantrums are always memorable," Owen remarked wryly. "I wouldn't worry about Gael remembering about the toys and clothes. Children forget things more easily than you or I do. Anyway, an adult will always be watching Luke, so Gael will be stopped if he tries to do anything to our little boy, and he'll be in big trouble if he attempts to make any with Luke."

"But if he gets in trouble for trying to do anything to Luke, he'll blame Luke, not himself for that, and he'll resent Luke all the more." Shaking her head, Beru bit her lip. "When Dama was born, I had a lot of difficulty adjusting to the fact that I wasn't the baby of the family any more, and I was very bitter when I got punished for trying to pull a prank on her."

"You are happy to have her as a sister and as a friend, now, though," Owen said only to be cut off by a cry from the back seat. Turning around anxiously to see what had distressed Luke, he saw that the ball had slipped out of Luke's grasp and was rolling away from him. Beru spun around and tried to grab the ball, but, before she could touch it, it rolled back between Luke's fingers. Frowning, Owen faced forward again, trying to ignore the chill rippling down his spine and causing the hairs on the nape of his neck to shiver in sympathy. Firmly, he told himself that he had not witnessed an early display of the creepy Jedi power that Anakin had probably passed along to Luke, and that he had certainly not seen anything that violated the laws of physics.

Forcing himself to return to the conversation as if nothing unusual had happened, he fixed his gaze on Haro's farm, which was coming into view over the sand dunes, and went on with all the crispness he could muster, "I was twelve when Shmi became my stepmother, and I wasn't happy to have to listen to a mother when I had survived for seven years without doing. For a few months, I was horribly rude to her, and then I would be all outraged at the injustice of the universe when Dad punished me for treating her disrespectfully. With time, I got over my anger, I came to love Shmi as my mother, and now I am here raising her grandson. Sooner or later, everyone has to learn that they have to live with the family they're given, whether or not they chose to have a certain family member. Learning to love and respect someone you initially resented is an important part of growing up, and Gael's a little brat who has a lot of growing up to do, I assure you."

"You didn't tell me that you were mean to Shmi when she first became your stepmother," Beru pointed out dryly. "Still keeping secrets from me?"

"You didn't tell me that you were a brat to Dama when she was a baby, so we're equally secretive," countered Owen, parking their speeder outside Haro's house.

Owen and Beru had barely climbed out of the speeder before they were drowned in a sea of hugging and kissing relatives, who had raced out of the house to envelop the newcomers in one gigantic welcoming embrace. In a jumble of merry chatter, the group carried the food and the luggage inside.

"Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen, I'll bring your bags to your room," announced Ara, her dark eyes shining with solemnity as though this were a great responsibility with which to invest herself. Determinedly, she threw a duffle bag over each of her slender shoulders and started to wobble down the hallway to the guest room that Owen and Beru shared whenever they visited.

Wondering, as he often did, if the weight Ara was putting on herself was too much, Owen shouted after her, "I can help you, or you can do it in two loads."

"I got it," she hollered back, shooting him an impatient glance over her loaded shoulders.

"Whitesun women are strong." Beru nudged him in the ribs. "You should know that by now."

"Lars men are chivalrous," he retorted. "Whenever possible, we try to avoid seeing our women break their backs."

"Are the bags heavy with presents for me?" demanded Gael, mouth set in a fashion that made it clear he was prepared to pout extensively if the answer wasn't affirmative.

"That question is rude, and rude little boys don't get any presents from anyone," Dama warned her son in a voice that managed to be both amused and stern.

"Sorry I rude," Gael said, sounding more petulant than remorseful.

"Oh, speaking of rudeness, I'm not being a very good hostess." Haro's wife, Jessa, laughed. Gesturing into the living room filled with comfortable sofas and caf tables packed with appetizers, she added, "Make yourself at home. I'll just put the food you brought in the kitchen, and then I'll join you. In the meantime, Haro can keep you entertained."

Everyone except Jessa, who was bringing the massive amount of food Beru had cooked into the kitchen, and Ara, who was apparently still carrying the luggage down the hallway to the guest room, settled into the upholstered divans. Haro would probably have launched into a conversation about how the prices he and Owen had received for water in the settlements had compared to the ones garnered in previous years, but Trisha, usually a silent witness to the chaos of the first frenzied moments of a family reunion, sidled up beside Beru on the sofa, asking softly, "Aunt Beru, may I hold Luke? I promise I'll be very careful, and I won't drop him."

Owen fought to conceal his grin. He could tell by Trisha's use of the formal 'may,' rather than the casual 'can' that she had rehearsed this small speech, imaging every objection to the request and trying to counter it before it could be raised. His quietest niece was so clever with her words—when she spoke, every word was planned for maximum impact. She was young, but she so rarely said anything foolish. She was one of those rare creatures who thought before she opened her mouth.

"Of course, dear." Beru smiled, and began to instruct Trisha in the art of holding a baby—showing her how to hold Luke so that his head would be supported properly.

"He's so cute," whispered Trisha, gazing into Luke's wide blue eyes with her own gaping ones. Luke cooed and waved a small fist in welcome. Grinning, Trisha held out her fingers and let Luke squeeze them. "And his skin is so soft. It's amazing."

Vania, however, wasn't about to let Trisha receive all the baby's attention. "I want to hold him, too," she trilled, waltzing over to the sofa. "Luke will like me better than he likes you, because I'm not boring like you, Trisha."

"That's not a nice thing to say, Vania," Ara said primly, as she entered the living room, returned from depositing the luggage in the guest room. "Trisha is not boring, and I'm sure that Luke will like her as much as he'll like you. Babies are very accepting of people, aren't they, Aunt Beru?"

"I don't know about babies in general, but Luke definitely is." Beru smiled at each of her nieces in turn. Patting Vania on the head, she went on, "Luke's very sociable, just like Vania, our precious social butterfly."

"Don't see why everyone loves babies so much," scoffed Gael, stomping his feet. "Nothing good about them. Just poop and crying. And taking clothes and toys."

"I think that you've done quite enough crying now," his father told him sharply. "You've certainly done more than the baby."

"Want somebody to play with me." Stubbornly, Gael lifted his chin.

"Then stop pouting," his father replied tersely. "Nobody wants to play with a whiner."

"Nobody wants to play with me!" Gael gave a furious shriek that turned his entire face crimson, and then stalked from the living room. His feet pounded down the hallway, and Luke, scared and bewildered by the ruckus, burst into shrill sobs.

Clicking her tongue soothingly, Beru took Luke out of Trisha's arms and rocked him gently against her chest. While Beru calmed the baby, Trisha shoved herself off the sofa, and Vania, taking a theatrical breath to prepare herself for one of her important speeches, declared smugly, "Everyone, Ara, Trisha, and I are going to put on a show for you tonight. Ara's the director. Trisha is the writer and the set designer. I'm the actress and costume artist. We have to go prepare now. The show will be right here as soon as dinner is over."

"How exciting!" exclaimed Dama, beaming at her nieces.

"I can hardly wait," Beru added, as the girls, already consumed with plans for the evening's performance, disappeared down the hallway to practice and make posters in Ara's bedroom.

"So, has everyone been keeping up with the holonews?" Alec, Dama's husband asked, and Owen thought that the line that separated adulthood and childhood was that point at which, instead of wanting to run off and plan a performance or blow something up, you would rather sit around on the sofa, talking about politics that depressed everybody.

"I wish I hadn't," Owen grunted, "but this new Empire-building era grabs the holonews as well as the Clone Wars did."

"That Lord Vader is quite a monster, isn't he?" Haro put in, biting into a piece of cheese from the platter on the caf table. "I don't care how the holonews tries to spin things, I just don't trust anyone who walks around in a black suit with a mask, taking over planets and killing people, even if they are enemies of the Empire's order and threats to the Empire's peace, or whatever rot the holonews spews."

"I'm just so grateful that the girls are being raised away from the Empire, and beyond its control," agreed Jessa, nibbling on a cracker. "I can't imagine what it would be like to raise children in a Republic that first was torn apart by civil war, and then was turned overnight into an Empire."

"I don't hear about revolts as much as I thought I would," Dama observed, her forehead furrowed. "I thought the citizens of the Republic would be furious that their Republic, which they believed was worth fighting the Separatists to keep intact, was being transformed into an Empire."

"The tyranny of a dictatorship or the bureaucracy of an elite," Owen snorted. "One government is as corrupt as another. Why risk death to pick your poison when you can just swallow it without a fuss?"

"Maybe you're right." Dama shrugged as Beru, who had managed to rock Luke to sleep, carried the baby down the hall to the guest room for his nap. "I mean, I also thought that the Jedi would always be around to protect the Republic. I thought that the Republic and the Jedi would always be around to ensure their mutual, eternal survival, but the Republic is dead, and the Jedi are fading from the galaxy like a mirage in the desert."

"Tell me about it." Grimly, Alec nodded. "They say that a group of Jedi—about fifty or so—survived the execution order and gathered on Kessel, planning to resist the Empire, but Lord Vader got wind of it, and put a stop to it as only he can. They say that he killed them all within minutes and sustained only minor injuries in the process."

"That's not natural." Dama shuddered. "We live in a very dark galaxy."

"The Jedi never did all that much to brighten the galaxy and gave it quite a bit of darkness," Owen muttered, his lips twisting. "Even if they have all died out, the galaxy hasn't lost that much. They were unnatural, just like Vader is."

"Perhaps we could change the subject," suggested Beru, returning from putting Luke down for his nap and settling herself on the sofa next to her husband. "Maybe we could talk about something less depressing. I was quite impressed by the prices we received for our water in Anchorhead. Did you have similar success there, Haro?"

"Oh, yes." Haro nodded. "The hydroponic gardens seem to be doing a roaring trade, and when they bloom, so do we."

"Very punny," Jessa remarked dryly.

"I know that you married me despite my puns, not because of them." Chuckling, Haro inclined his head. "Thank you for your patience with my puns, my dear."

"I patiently await the day I am too deaf to hear them," said Jessa.

The next second, they all might have wished for deafness as Ara's shout echoed down the hallway to the living room: "Gael, what are you doing to Luke? Put down that glass of water at once!"

The world was a blur to Owen as he, Beru, Dama, and Alec raced down the hallway to the guest room where there was a terrible, frozen tableau. Ara, her mouth open in admonishment, was shooting Gael her severest glance. Gael was poised on tiptoe, ready to spill a glass of water all over Luke's crib. Luke, awakened by Ara's scream, was wailing, sending his loud tears out into the confusion.

Beru lurched forward, enfolded Luke in her arms, and disappeared down the corridor toward the living room in a string of soothing noises.

"Thank you for the warning, Ara," Owen said gruffly, stunned by the realization that Luke was not safe from harm even surrounded by his family—at least not if jealous Gael was anywhere nearby. "You can go back to playing with Trisha and Vania."

"Yes, sir." Ara scampered off to rejoin her sisters in her bedroom.

"What were you thinking of doing with the water?" hissed Dama, bustling up to her son and yanking the glass out of his grasp.

"Dumping on Luke." Gael offered his trademark scowl and a complimentary, scathing eye roll. "Duh, Mom."

"Don't talk to your mother like that, Gael," snapped Alec. Pointing a finger that trembled with rage down the hallway in the direction of the guest room where he, Dama, and Gael were staying, and ordered, "Go stand in our room with your nose against the wall, and think about why what you did was wrong. I'll be in to talk with you in a few minutes, and if you aren't appropriately sorry for what you did, I'll make you very sorry."

"I going, I going," said Gael swiftly, hurrying from the room before his father could propel him out with any swats to the backside.

"I apologize for Gael," Dama told Owen. "I assure you that he will be punished."

"It's fine," Owen, who had long ago reached the conclusion that it was pointless to blame anyone except Gael for Gael's rambunctious behavior, said.

Then he returned to the living room with Dama behind him. The conversation about the profits from the latest harvest resumed, interrupted by raised voices and howling cries from the bedroom where Alec seemed to be quite emphatically expressing his disapproval of Gael's recent conduct.

Several awkward minutes later, Alec strode into the living room with a red-eyed Gael in tow.

"Sorry for trying to dump water on Luke," muttered Gael, briefly glancing up at Owen and Beru. Then, he plopped onto an empty divan and buried his head in his hands.

"Do you want to play with Luke, Gael?" asked Beru gently, sitting down next to him and arranging Luke on her lap so that the baby's bright blue eyes were fixed on his older cousin.

"He can play games?" Dubiously, Gael cocked his head.

"He loves copying games," Beru explained. "If you make a series of sounds or make a face at him, he'll try to imitate you."

"Really?" Gael pressed, tilting his head even further.

"Give it a shot." Beru tossled Gael's hair. "Then you'll see for yourself."

"Okay. I'll make a face." Gael gave his characteristic pout, but it was quickly transformed into a smile when Luke's lips curved into such an accurate imitation of this sulky expression that Owen felt his stomach tighten with foreboding. He had no doubt that, as soon as Luke could talk, the boy would be using this pout to his advantage.

Apparently, Gael had a similar image of Luke's future to manipulate emotions, for he laughed and said, "You're not bad, Luke. We'd make a good team."

"Your son is a bad influence," Owen grumbled to Dama and Alec.

"It's good training for later life." Dama chuckled. "Eventually, Luke will have to learn to resist temptation."

"Tell me about it," mumbled Owen, gazing deep into the brilliant blue eyes Luke had inherited from Anakin and trying not to imagine those eyes looking out from behind a black mask on another ravaged world.

From what had happened in the speeder on the way to Haro's farm, he knew that Luke had inherited more from Anakin than bright blue eyes and a proclivity for pouting; he had inherited Anakin's ability to tap into that weird supernatural power the Jedi had called the Force. That meant that, one day, he would face the same temptation that Anakin had. All Owen could do was stave off that day as long as possible and raise Luke to be such a good person that when the moment of reckoning came—when both the dark and the light in the universe sought to claim him and his power as their own—he would make the right choice without hesitation. For now, though, that fateful day was a long way in the future, and Owen could take comfort in the fact that Luke was a small boy, bouncing on Beru's knee.


	6. Chapter 6

Robbed

Before dawn, Beru liked to gather mushrooms for her stews and salads from the tops of the vaporators. Owen, forever remembering how his beloved stepmother had been kidnapped by Tusken Raiders doing the same chore, always accompanied her with a blaster holstered to his hip, much the way Beru always had Luke, now almost a year old, strapped to her back in a sling.

They were making their way across the sand dunes that comprised their moisture farm when Owen saw his nephew's bright blue eyes lock on something in the distance. Glancing over his shoulder to see what ordinary thing had captured young Luke's interest, he spotted a shadowy, cowled figure lurking in the periphery of the homestead.

"That fool Kenobi's back," Owen grumbled to his wife, rolling his eyes and resisting the temptation to pull out his blaster to drive the meddlesome Jedi away from his home and family. Only the knowledge of the mullion techniques of deflecting blaster fire Kenobi had demonstrated on the Holonet during the Clone Wars coverage kept his weapon in its sheath. There was no point wasting bolts on a being who wouldn't be hurt or intimidated by them. It was wiser, by far, to save them for the pillaging Tusken Raiders.

"He doesn't mean any harm, dear," Beru murmured, resting a placatory palm on his arm, as though she could sense his thoughts and emotions as keenly as any of the now virtually extinct Jedi. "He just wants to protect Luke, which makes him an ally, since all we want is to keep our boy safe, and, when he follows me on supply trips to Anchorhead, he keeps Tusken Raiders away better than a blaster."

"Humph," Owen grunted, as they approached the first vaporator. "We don't need his protection. I can keep this family safe just fine myself. I've half a mind to go over and tell Kenobi that right now."

Fantasies of marching up to Kenobi and informing the Jedi relic in graphic terms how he could use his backside as a lightsaber sheath faded rapidly from Owen's mind when he and his wife reached the spot where the first vaporator should have been, and where there was now nothing more than a pit of sand. Suddenly, his stomach felt as empty and as sunken as that hole. The technology and the stolen moisture would lose him and Beru at least a thousand credits, and that wasn't even counting the price of buying a new vaporator. Worse still, if one vaporator was gone, that likely meant that more were taken. The Tusken Raiders, who accounted for over ninety percent of crimes against Tatooine farmers, weren't known for restraint in robberies.

Swallowing hard and hearing the blood resounding in his ears as it pounded through his brain, Owen glanced frantically around the farm. Despair pricked like tears at his eyes as he saw dozens of identical craters pock-marking his farm, and rage thudded through his veins, making him burn hotter than Tatooine's twin suns. A terrible cry—either of defeat or fury; he didn't know which—burst from his usually unexpressive lips.

The savage desire to fly after the Tusken Raiders and kill them all like Anakin Skywalker had done several years ago coursed through him, because those beasts, who had stolen Shmi, were not taking anything or anyone else that was dear to him. Yet, Owen wasn't strong in the Force like Anakin. He would have to rely on the solid reasoning skills he had depended upon all his life. He would have to contact the local farmers and arrange a band to reclaim his property from the despicable Tusken Raiders.

After uttering just about every cruse he knew, Owen told Beru, trying to regain his calm more than soothe her because she looked as brave and serene as ever, "Don't worry. We'll survive this."

"I know." Beru's eyes shone with quiet faith.

"I'll call our neighbors and muster a band to get our vaporators back from the Tusken Raiders." Owen's hand drifted toward his blaster, already preparing to shoot five Tusken Raiders a minute. "They'll learn that this isn't an area for easy pickings. If they mess with one farmer, they mess with us all, and we're tough as sandstorms around here."

"It might be safer to just order new vaporators," Beru pointed out softly.

"Safer but not more economical." Owen snorted, shaking his head. "That would set us back at least seven seasons. I'm getting those vaporators back, Beru. No Tusken Raider scum is going to steal from me."

"Being set back several seasons is better than dying." Beru folded her arms as she often did when she felt he was being foolishly stubborn. "I'd rather that you stay alive and whole than die and get injured trying to recover our vaporators. Expensive as they are, they aren't worth your life or any of your limbs, Owen."

"I'm going to return alive and whole with our vaporators." Owen sighed, as he often did when he felt she was missing a point that should have been obvious to anyone with two brain cells, and continued tersely, "That's the idea."

"I remember Cliegg saying a similar thing before trying to rescue Shmi." Beru's cheeks were pale, and her eyes were dark with memories of pain and grief. "He came back without his leg."

"Are you saying he was wrong to go after her?" snapped Owen, his jaw tightening. "He should have just let the Tusken Raiders have her without trying to save her, huh? He should have allowed someone he loved to be stolen from his life without even putting up a fight because fights are so messy and dangerous, is that right?"

"It's not wrong to risk your life and limbs for someone you love, but for your possessions, no matter how valuable, it is," explained Beru in the patient voice she assumed whenever she deemed he was being particularly pigheaded. "We can buy new vaporators. We can't buy your life or your limbs back."

"You're missing the point." Realizing that tears were streaming down Luke's face—because the boy could always sense an argument swifter than a ronto could blood—and that the nosy Kenobi was coming closer—doubtlessly to better hear the quarrel-Owen gritted his teeth. He waved a shaking hand around his looted land. "This homestead is our life. By stealing these vaporators, the Tusken Raiders are taking our lives as surely as they did Shmi's when they kidnapped her, but I'm not dead yet, and if there is one certainty in this chaotic universe, it's that I'm going down fighting for what's mine."

"Perhaps we should discuss this latter." Beru's lips pressed together in a thin line as she slid Luke out of his sling and balanced the boy on her hip, running calming fingers through his blond hair. "We'll have time to think things though and get over our tempers so neither of us will say anything that we'll regret."

Owen wanted to take immediate action, because the longer he waited to summon the neighbors, the harder it would be to track the thieving Tusken Raiders, but he also knew that pushing Beru on this point would make her dig her heels in all the more, ultimately resulting in a greater delay.

Aggravated, he grunted and conceded, "Fine. I'll go check out the security system. Something must have malfunctioned or the Tusken Raiders wouldn't have been able to get onto the farm last night to steal basically everything we own."

Before Beru, who was crooning some nonsense song to pacify Luke, could respond, he stalked off across the sand, glowering at the distant, robed figure of Kenobi. It wasn't fair that the smug Jedi had witnessed another scene of domestic discord featuring Owen and Beru that wouldn't have been out of place on a Holonet reality show, especially since he and Beru had the epitome of a healthy and harmonic marriage. It was just a coincidence that they were at their worst when a self-righteous Jedi was polluting the environment.

When he reached the security system, he took a moment to still his trembling fingers before fiddling with any of the knobs and levers. It took him less than fifteen minutes of tinkering to uncover the problem: the invisible shock fence, which surrounded the homestead's perimeter, had switched off in the middle of last night, due to a faulty power convertor.

"Blast those damn Jawas to a life sentence in Kessel's darkest mines," snarled Owen, recognizing with a resigned rage that he would be spending the rest of the day on a trip to Anchorhead to purchase a new power convertor for the shock fence. Installing it would have to be done after dusk, leaving the farm vulnerable to attack, though, now the vaporators were stolen, at least the place was a less lucrative target. "They said that power convertor was guaranteed on the lives of their mothers to last at least three years, and it hasn't even lasted three months."

Visions of shooting cheating Jawas whirling in his head, Owen returned to the house, where Beru was engaged in her daily battle to vaccum up all the sand they carried into the living room.

"I'm going into Anchorhead to pick up a new power convertor for the shock fence," he said, as she turned off the vacuum cleaner. "The damn Jawas sold us a faulty one."

"Da Ja," trilled Luke, who was fond of repeating to the best of his abilities words and phrases he found interesting, and Owen flushed, reminding himself that he would be dealing with a cursing child if he didn't stop spilling profanities near Luke's open ears.

Flashing a grin up at his uncle, Luke lifted his arms in his sign that he wanted to be picked up and adored.

"All right, little guy." Owen gave his first small smile of the day as he scooped up his little boy and planted a quick kiss on the child's forehead.

"Why don't you take Luke into Anchorhead with you?" suggested Beru before her husband could return their nephew to the blanket he had been rolling a ball upon. "He loves to see the world."

"Guess I can do that." Owen decided that the time he would lose looking after Luke on the journey would be less than what he would if he argued the point. When his wife decided something pertaining to Luke, she could not be dissuaded.

"Here's a sandwich and some juma juice." Beru thrust a bag of lunch she had probably prepared for him while he examined the security system, anticipating his need to travel to Anchorhead for a replacement part. Handing him a jar of baby food, she added, "And something for Luke, as well."

"Let nobody say that you don't know how to take care of your men." Owen kissed her on the cheek. Then, he shoved the lunches into a satchel, slung it over his shoulder, picked up Luke and a toy to keep the boy occupied on the trip to and from Anchorhead, and left the house.

He settled Luke into the speeder seat, placed the satchel on the floor, and then climbed into the pilot seat. A moment later, he had ignited the engine and was steering the craft away from their farm.

Sand dunes flickered part, and Owen tried not to think about how much poorer he was today than he had been yesterday. It wasn't fair what awful creatures could do to the livelihoods of honest, hardworking men like himself. He had never stolen so much as a decicred from anyone, and now all his vaporators, which made his farm a success, were taken from him. He just wanted to keep his wife and nephew safe, but now their survival was threatened just as his stepmother's had been…

He arrived in Anchorhead, putting an end to his bitter reflections. He parked his speeder in front of the most reasonably-priced tech shop, and lifted Luke and toy out of the speeder seat. Luke's eyes widened as he drank in all the beings of diverse species meeting and haggling on the street and pedwalk. His gaze only expanded even further when they entered the relative cool of the store, and his eyes lit on all the gadgets loaded on racks.

After grabbing a shopping basket from the bin near the door, Owen strode over to the aisle devoted to power convertors, searching for a convertor that looked both reliable and inexpensive. Finally, after five minutes of looking, he found one that seemed to be the best compromise of cost and quality.

Placing it in his shopping basket, he walked down the aisle toward the register with Luke perched on his hip. As they passed one of the impulse buy displays at the end of the aisle—a mountain of gray toy starships with muja streaks designed to tempt any male children who were dragged into the tech store by parents needing to purchase replacement parts—Luke's hand snaked out to snatch one and dump it into the shopping basket.

"No, Luke," Owen said sharply, knowing his nephew recognized that prohibition and admonition.

Luke's wide eyes flooded with tears, and his lips twitched into a pout he had probably learned from watching Gael.

Owen's hand, about to return the toy starship to the stack, hesitated. The stern part of him had no intention of indulging Luke's petulance, but the soft half of him wanted to give his nephew anything the boy wished, no matter how little he and Beru could actually afford and how unnecessary the item in question happened to be. Nothing could be more agonizing for a caregiver to do than look into a child's trusting eyes and deny him something—even an unneeded new toy.

"All the little boys want those toys." Sensing a sale, the wings of the Toydarian clerk behind the counter buzzed with excitement. "Don't want your boy to be the only one without one, do you? And you don't want him throwing a temper, either. Whatever a child breaks, the parent has to pay for. Store policy and all."

"Luke knows better than to throw a tantrum in a store," Owen replied crisply, even though this wasn't strictly true. Luke had never had a chance to learn not to, though, if the toy dumped into the basket was any indication, that day could be approaching soon. Deciding to put that difficult experience off for a little longer and thinking that cute nephews were even worse thieves than Tusken Raiders, he walked up to the counter, on which he put the power convertor and toy starship. "But I'll buy the toy. You've got to earn your commission somehow."

"I've been employee of the month for six months in a row now," said the Toydarian, as he rang up Owen's purchases.

"Bet your co-workers love you," commented Owen wryly, swiping his cred card through the scanner and inputting his signature.

"My boss does, at any rate." The clerk tore the receipt out of the register once it finished printing and thrust it into Owen's hand. "Here's your receipt, sir. Have a nice day, and be sure to return here for all your technological needs."

"If your convertor is better than the one I got from the Jawas, I won't be back soon," muttered Owen, exiting the shop.

He grabbed the satchel with his and Luke's lunches, and sat down, with his nephew on his lap, on a bench in the shade of a shriveled shrub. With relatively few spills and sputters, he fed Luke. Then, while Luke made whirring noises and soared the toy starship around, he ate his own sandwich.

When he was finished, he returned to the speeder, placed Luke in the speeder seat, put the satchel and the bag with the new power convertor on the floor, and climbed back into the pilot's seat.

As fast as he could, he flew back to his farm. Once there, he dropped Luke off in the kitchen, where Beru was cooking some delicious dish for supper, and then hurried back outside to repair the security system.

The twin suns had set and the black sky was illuminated only by the yellow pinpricks of stars light-years away when he completed the repairs. He was about to eat the meal Beru pulled out of the oven where she had been keeping it warm for him when his comlink beeped.

Rolling his eyes, he yanked it out of his pocket, and demanded in a tone that made it plain he was not in the mood for niceties or casual chit-chat, "Yes?"

"It's Kenobi," the placid voice on the other end of the connection responded, and Owen thought he would recognize that pompous tone under any circumstances. "I was wondering if I could stop by in about ten minutes."

"Last second callers are always welcome at the Lars homestead," Owen growled, hoping his sarcasm was apparent even to deaf people on Alderaan. "Come if you must. I'll switch off the security system I spent over an hour repairing just for you."

"I always appreciate your hospitality." Kenobi's polite words made it impossible for Owen to determine if the other man was being sincere or ironic.

With that final enigmatic remark, Kenobi terminated the link, and, huffing, Owen rose to turn off the security system, telling Beru, "You can put my meal back in the oven. I'll eat after Kenobi is done pestering us. Less chance of me getting sick listening to him that way."

Nodding, Beru tucked the dish back in the oven, as Owen left the house. By the time he switched off the security system, it was nearly time for Kenobi to arrive. Bracing himself for another confrontation with Kenobi, he plopped into the chair across from his wife, and, noticing for the first time the absence of Luke's babbling and squealing, asked, "Did you put Luke to bed?"

"Before you completed the repairs, yes." Beru bobbed her head in affirmation.

"Good." Owen grunted. "There's less of a chance of him hearing me curse at Kenobi then."

"What a concerned parent you are." Beru chuckled. "Luke showed me the new starship you bought him. I think it's going to be his new favorite toy."

"It cost enough that it should be." Trying to adopt a gruff façade to conceal the fact that he couldn't resist the pleading pout of his adorable nephew, Owen shrugged. "At that price, I almost could have bought the boy a real ship."

"You love Luke so much." Beru squeezed his shoulder. "Don't you want to be sure that you'll always be around to protect him?"

"We'll discuss the issue of me going after the Tusken Raiders after Kenobi is done bothering us." Irritated, Owen twisted free of his wife's clasp. "I can only be nagged by one person at a time."

Before Beru could answer, Kenobi had appeared, and there was the formality of getting up to greet an unwelcome guest.

"Won't you come into the living room?" Beru invited when they met Kenobi at the door.

"I won't be staying long, but thank you for your gracious offer." Kenobi inclined his head, and then went on, "I have come to inform you and your husband that I have recovered your vaporators from the Tusken Raiders. The vaporators are outside now, ready to be installed in the morning."

"I didn't need your help," fumed Owen, furious at Kenobi for robbing him of his pride. "I could have gone after the Tusken Raiders myself with some other farmers. I may be just an ordinary man with none of your mystical powers, but I don't need the help of any stinking Jedi to survive or protect my family."

" Thank you' is a more appropriate response to a favor." Kenobi arched an eyebrow, presuming to reprimand Owen after the ultimate insult to a man's dignity—the implication that he couldn't solve his own problems, win his own battles, and protect his own home.

"This family doesn't need any more of your favors, Kenobi," Owen snarled, his jaw clenching in unison with his balling fists. "Stay away from my nephew, my wife, and me, or I'll contact the authorities."

"You won't attract attention to Luke like that." Kenobi lowered his hood further over his face. "Still, I will honor your request and keep my distance from your homestead. If you ever need any sort of assistance, please don't hesitate to call me. Farewell, Owen and Beru."

With a bow, Kenobi disappeared into the darkness. Turning to his wife to complain about the man's insufferable arrogance, Owen saw that Beru's eyes were gleaming with relief.

"You're happy," he accused, placing his hands squarely on his hips and glaring at her.

"Well-spotted, sharpshooter. I'm not happy that your pride is wounded." Gently, Beru kissed his cheek. "But I'm glad that you're otherwise okay and will remain so for awhile now thanks to Kenobi's interference."

"Humph." Scowling, Owen wondered if wives existed to rub salt into the raw cuts their husbands suffered. "I'm going to turn back on the security system so that the vaporators won't get stolen again. While I'm gone, you can take advantage of the opportunity to laugh at me behind my back, and my hard heart will try not to break with pain."

"


	7. Chapter 7

A Real Family

"Did you hear that the Darklighters have a new speeder?" Quianna Starkiller asked Owen and Beru, raising an eyebrow at them over her glass. Quianna and her husband Nico were hosting Owen, Beru, and Luke. The adults were busy sipping iced kopi tea, munching on sweesonberry rolls and Kanali wafers smeared with fresh blue butter, and exchanging news and speculation on the lives of their other neighbors as they lounged in the cluster of sofas around the caf table. Meanwhile, Luke and the Starkiller boy, Windislav—or Windy, for short—played with and squabbled over toys in a corner by the holoscreen.

"No," Owen answered, frowning into his drink. Disapproving of all frivolous uses of hard-earned money, such as excessive numbers of speeders (any amount over two) owned by fellow moisture farmers, he added, "Don't they already own three? What do they want more for? It's only the mister and the missus and their oldest son who knows how to drive one anyway. What's the point of having more speeders than you've got people to drive them? That's the definition of foolishness if I ever heard it, and if any of them have the nerve to talk to me about credits being tight, I might not be able to resist the temptation to tear out their guts."

"I'm sure they have a reason," said Beru, setting her cup delicately on the table, and shooting her husband a gently chastising glance. "They might not explain to us every decision that they make about their money, but that doesn't mean they aren't using their credits wisely."

"Humph." Dubiously, Owen snorted, sending some powdered sugar floating off the wafer he was about to bite into. "We're talking about Destin and Taryn Darklighter, Beru. They're always spending money they can't afford to on some new extravagance, and Jaron—their oldest—is even worse. I doubt that boy has worked long enough to earn a decicred in his life, but that doesn't stop his parents from buying him a fancy speeder for his sixteenth birthday. I'm not saying that the Darklighters aren't nice people, but it can't be denied that their fiscal management skills are poor enough to drive any self-respecting Toydarian to suicide."

"Well, Jaron doesn't have that fancy speeder any longer," commented Nico, selecting a roll from the tray in the center of the caf table and taking a nibble. "He was navigating Beggar's Canyon as all those hotshot young pilots do and smashed it against a rock outcropping. Destin says that the young idiot is fortunate to still be in one piece. Apparently, the speeder got all the damage."

"Rumor has it that Jaron's been grounded basically until the end of the century, and he won't be riding another speeder until he can afford one of his own," Quianna put in with the savage delight of a mother describing the trouble any errant youth who wasn't her own beloved child got into. "Destin and Taryn think that he will show a bit more respect for vehicles, if not for his own life, if he has to buy it with credits he earned and saved for himself."

"I wish that teenagers didn't risk their lives flying around Beggar's Canyon." Beru sighed, and cast an anxious glance over at Luke, who was currently pouting as he watched Windy build a skytower of colorful blocks, as if envisioning him as an adolescent racing toward death and yet convinced of his own immortality. "Too many young people are killed or injured there every year."

"I don't think that we have to worry about our boys getting into mischief in Beggar's Canyon for many years now, Beru," Quianna said, clicking her tongue soothingly.

"If Luke ever risks his life in Beggar's Canyon, I'll kill him myself." Owen grunted.

Before any of the adults could respond to this grim pronouncement, his nephew squawked, glaring at Windy with all the anger a small boy could muster at an uneven distribution of toys, "Lemme have blocks, Windy. You have long turn awready. Me go."

"Mine." Sticking out his tongue haughtily, Windy clutched a handful of blocks to his chest as if it were a horde of Corusca gemstones. "You play with 'em later."

Beru leaned forward on the divan as if to intervene to resolve the conflict and ensure sharing, but Owen rested a stilling hand on her wrist. Her forehead knotting, she sank back against the cushions, watching the bickering boys with the vigilance of a protective mother hawk-bat whose nestlings were threatened.

Owen sympathized. After all, he longed to cross the room in one stride and make Windy share the block with Luke, but, at the same time, a more rational instinct inside him argued that he had to let his nephew solve his own problems or else the boy would always be relying on his aunt and uncle for help.

Luke's blue eyes blazed with the defiant, cunning fire Owen had seen in Anakin's gaze when the Holonet flashed to him performing some stunning maneuver in the cockpit that would have his reeling foe gaping and wondering where his starship had vanished. Thinking that Luke was no fool, Owen watched as his nephew grabbed the starship he had begged for in Anchorhead from the bottom of the pile, toddled over to the opposite corner, where he swooped the ship around, making booming sounds that suggested the ship was engaged in a fierce battle.

For a moment, Windy stared at Luke. Then, when it became clear to him that Luke was having fun without the blocks, he lost interest in the bright skytower he had been constructing. Waddling over to Luke, Windy whined, "Wanna play."

"My ship." Luke continued to fly his toy around. "You can be space."

"Want ship." Windy stamped his feet and clenched his fists. "Space no fun."

Before Windy could hit Luke or descend further into a tantrum, Quianna, moving over to the holoscreen, trilled in the tone of a parent accustomed to controlling a rambunctious child by placing him in front of the holoscreen, "Boys, let's watch something exciting."

After flipping through a few channels, she settled on a popular children's show depicting the heartwarming misadventures of a family of four on a beautiful, peaceful world like Alderaan or Naboo. There was no shouting, now fear of not having enough credits at the end of a farming season, and no true conflict in the perfectly functioning and unreal holoshow family.

It was the kind of show, Owen concluded, that was responsible for giving children the galaxy over the false impression that life was all laughter and laziness, but the alternative, he supposed, was to let little boys and girls watch sickening news stories or adult shows full of foul language and inappropriate plot points. As such, he accepted the fact that Luke would spend hours of his formative years being indoctrinated by an unrealistic, fantastical worldview.

Windy and Luke abandoned the starship and glued their eyes to the flickering images on the holoscreen instead. Beru and Quianna had just slipped into the kitchen to fetch some Reythan crackers and Jerba cheese for the boys to snack on when Luke tottered up to his uncle, tapping Owen's knee in a demand to be seated on his uncle's lap.

"All right. Up you go, little guy," said Owen, swinging his nephew onto his lap.

"Kids on screen don't live with aunt and uncle." Pensively, Luke sucked on his thumb.

Owen bit his lip. Obviously, Luke had realized that aunt did not mean the same as mommy, and uncle didn't mean the same as daddy. Inwardly, Owen vigorously cursed the wealthy scriptwriters and directors who perpetuated an image of an ideal family that only made children who could never have that perfect family—and nobody could because that perfect family didn't exist even among the elite on Core Worlds—feel like inadequate outcasts.

"There are many types of families, Luke," he explained, glad that Nico was pretending to be engrossed by the holoscreen. "Some kids are part of big families. Others are part of small ones. Some live with moms and dads. Others live with aunts and uncles. All are nice and good and full of love."

Blast it to the spiral arms of the galaxy. Now he was reduced to sounding like a hokey parent on the holoshow he despised so much, spilling politically correct platitudes about loving families as he bounced his nephew on his knee and waited for the credits to roll. Still, as he bent forward to kiss Luke's forehead, he thought that real families with all their pain and arguments and secrets were better than fake ones with their glittering smiles and empty promises. The flawed reality was always preferable to the perfect imagining, but Owen could still be grateful that Luke, young and innocent enough to accept simple explanations for things nobody could understand, had already returned his attention to the holoshow, content to notice differences without judging them.


End file.
